PRETTY HEIRESS PLEADS FOR CLIFFORD.
Clifford Faxon was really a striking-looking young man when arrayed in
his best, which is by no means saying very much for his clothes, which
were of the cheapest material.
But with his gentlemanly bearing, his clear, honest brown eyes, and
frank, genial face, he was one who always attracted a second look from
those whom he met.
One might have taken him for a son and heir of the squire, rather than a
menial in his employ, as he issued once more from the house.
“Well, sir, where are you going now?” demanded Squire Talford, who was
still sitting upon the veranda, and whose musings regarding his relations
with his bound boy had not been of the most soothing nature during the
last half-hour.
He well knew that, when Clifford’s time should expire, he would find it
no easy matter to fill his place with another so capable and faithful,
and he was irritated beyond measure over the probability of having to
hire another man and pay full wages for what he had been getting for
little or nothing during the last four years.
“I have an engagement with Professor Harding—it is my evening for
reading Greek and Latin with him,” Clifford respectfully replied, and
then proceeded on his way, apparently unmindful of the customary “humph!”
to which his employer always gave vent whenever anything annoyed him.
When Clifford was obliged to leave the academy in April, according to the
terms of his contract with Squire Talford, the principal had expressed
a great deal of disappointment, for he would have graduated with high
honors if he could have remained until the close of the school year, but
his hard master would not give him the two months to complete the course.
“The farm work must be done and Clifford could not be spared,” he coldly
told the professor, who had presumed to intercede for his promising
pupil. So the boy had been obliged to go into the field to plow, hoe,
and dig, while his more favored classmates went on in advance of him and
graduated.
But Professor Harding was determined that the boy’s education should not
be interrupted, and told him that he would give him certain evenings in
every week during the summer, and, if he could complete the course before
fall, he should have his diploma, even though he could not acquire it in
the ordinary way.
Clifford gladly availed himself of this opportunity, for his highest
ambition was to prepare himself for and obtain a college education.
As he wended his way toward his teacher’s house his heart was beating
high with hope, in spite of the weariness of his body, for, since
counting the money in his possession, he had conceived the daring
purpose of taking the examinations for Harvard for the coming year.
Professor Harding greeted him, as he always did, with a smile of
pleasure, for he liked the plucky, manly boy.
“You are late to-night, Cliff,” he remarked, as he entered. Then,
observing, that he was a trifle pale, he inquired: “Is anything wrong, my
boy?”
Tears sprang involuntarily to the boy’s eyes at the kindly tone and
smile; but, quickly repressing all signs of emotion, he seated himself
and gave his friend a brief account of what had occurred, and closed
by producing the munificent testimonial which he had received from the
passengers of the “limited express” for preventing a terrible accident.
“I have brought this money to you, Professor Harding,” he observed, as he
laid it upon the table before his friend, “to ask if you will invest it
for me until I need it? It is my nest-egg for college, and I am going to
take the exams. this fall.”
“Seven hundred and fifty dollars, Cliff!” the man exclaimed, in surprise;
“that is surely a handsome gift, but it is far too little for the service
you have rendered—that could never be estimated in dollars and cents.
Why, the corporation ought to give you a thousand more for saving their
property from being wrecked.”
“I am more than satisfied,” said Clifford, with a smile.
“But I am afraid you are a trifle presumptuous to contemplate entering
college on so small an amount,” said his friend gravely. “The expenses
will be heavy, you know. I feel sure you will pass the exams. all right,
but I am thinking of the draft upon your strength later on if you try to
work your own way.”
“I am going to try it, all the same,” said Clifford, his face brightening
at the assurance of his teacher that he would “pass.”
“This money will surely suffice for one year with economy, and that will
give me quite a start, while I am sure I do not need to tell you that I
shall make the most of my time.”
“Indeed, you do not—you have always done that, ever since I have known
you, but I wish you had some friends who could give you a lift along
the way now and then. Have you no aunts or uncles? Do you remember
your father, Cliff, or know anything about his family?” the professor
thoughtfully inquired.
“No, sir,” said the boy with a sigh, “my mother would never talk about my
father. Whenever I questioned her she would always put me off by saying,
‘Wait until you are older, my son, and then I shall have something to
tell you.’”
“And did she leave no papers to explain what she meant?”
“No; at least, none that I could ever find.”
“Well, there will be some way provided for you, I am sure,” said the
professor. “I will gladly take charge of your little fortune until you
need it. I will see that it is safely invested for you to-morrow. Does
the squire know about it?”
“Yes, and demanded it of me, because I am still under bonds,” replied
Clifford, with a flash in his eyes.
“Demanded it!” repeated his companion, in surprise.
“Yes,” and the young man repeated, word for word, what had passed between
himself and his task-master upon his return from New Haven.
“Well, I must say he is a hard man, and I cannot understand how any one
as rich as Squire Talford is supposed to be can be so penurious and
indifferent to so promising a fellow as you are, my boy!”
“Thank you,” responded Clifford, with a laugh, “I am certainly
fortunate in having so kind a friend as you have always been to me, and
now”—opening one of his books—“I am ready for my lesson.”
He read for an hour, becoming so absorbed in his work that he forgot his
weariness and the trials of his young life, while his teacher followed
with a manifest interest, which betrayed how deeply his feelings were
enlisted in this pupil, who was so ambitious and such a credit to him.
Before 10 o’clock Clifford was back in his own room, where, on his table,
he found an appetizing little lunch awaiting him. Until that moment he
had forgotten that he had had no supper.
“Well,” he said, as he sat down to it, “I surely have one other good
friend besides the professor. Maria always looks out for me; I am sure I
should often go hungry but for her.”
Maria was Squire Talford’s woman-of-all-work. Less than half an hour
later he was sleeping soundly and restfully, the consciousness of duty
well done and a more promising outlook for the future sweetening his
rest.
“Papa—please papa, do as I ask you; you are very rich, are you not?”
“Well, yes, Buttercup, I suppose I am what would be regarded as a rich
man, even here in New York.”
“Then you can send this poor boy some money, just as well as not. Only
think, papa, but for his bravery and the awful work that he did in that
dreadful storm, there must have been a terrible accident, and I should
never have come back to you, to say nothing about all those other people.”
“Hush, Goldenrod! I cannot bear that you should even hint at such a
calamity; the house—the world would be utterly desolate without you. What
would ten thousand fortunes be to me if I should lose you! Yes, Mollie,
I will send this lad a substantial token of my gratitude, if I find he
is worthy and likely to make a good use of money. I must be sure of that
first,” and Richard Heatherford gathered the slim, graceful form of his
only darling into his arms and held her close to his heart, while his
eyes rested with tearful fondness upon the fair, flushed face that was
lifted so earnestly to his.
She was his idol—this sweet, golden-haired, azure-eyed maiden, whom he
had named Marie for his French mother, but whom he almost invariably
addressed by some other tender pet-name, expressive of his fondness for
her, while to her playmates and school friends she was known by the
familiar name of Mollie.
She was sweet and lovable, always blithe and cheery, the life of the
house, and a favorite with all who knew her.
Mr. Heatherford had met her in New York on her arrival on “the Limited,”
and, the train being, of course, a little late, he was in a state of
painful suspense until it rolled into the station, and he held his
darling safe in his arms. When the two were seated in their elegant
carriage behind a fine pair of bay horses, with driver and coachman in
cream-white livery, and on their way uptown, Mollie, sitting beside her
father with his arm enfolding her, had told the story of the thrilling
experience of the afternoon, while the man’s face had grown as white as
chalk, as he realized how very near he had come to losing his choicest
earthly treasure.
Mollie had begged him then to send that brave boy “a lot of money,”
but, for the time being, he did not pay much heed to her request. He
could think of nothing, talk of nothing, but his thankfulness over her
wonderful escape from an appalling doom. But the following morning, when,
after breakfast, she followed him to the library and renewed the subject,
he was more ready to listen to her, and finally yielded to her request to
do something handsome for the lad, provided he found, upon inquiry, that
he was worthy.
“Oh, he is certainly worthy, papa,” Mollie asserted with enthusiasm,
“you never saw a nicer face than his. He isn’t handsome or stylish, like
Phil, you know”—with a little mocking laugh—“but he has a pair of great,
earnest brown eyes which make you feel good just to look into. His face
is as brown as a nut—all but his forehead, which is white and high and
nicely shaped like yours, papa dear,” and she emphasized her statement
with a fond little caress planted directly between his brows. “He had no
hat on,” she resumed; “he was in his shirt sleeves and wore overalls,
and his shoes were as coarse and clumsy as they could be; but I never
thought of his clothes after once looking into his face—it was so good,
so honest, and true.”
“Really, sweetheart, you are very enthusiastic over this rustic hero of
yours,” said Mr. Heatherford, and smiling at her earnestness, “but I
cannot wonder, now that I begin to realize something of the feat that he
accomplished.”
“And papa”—Mollie went on, now blushing and speaking with some
embarrassment, “when we reached New Haven I went to him and thanked
him for what he had done, and—I gave him that ring you let me buy last
spring.”
“What! that cameo?”
“Yes; you know I wanted to give it to Cousin Rex when he went to
California, but his mother had just given him a nice ring, and so I
bought him something else and kept the cameo. I have always liked it, for
it was so beautifully carved; so, even though it isn’t exactly a lady’s
ring, I have worn it, now and then, myself. I happened to have it on
yesterday.”
Mr. Heatherford laughed aloud with amusement.
“Well, well, Buttercup! So you gave it to this young Faxon—I believe you
said that is his name—as a souvenir! Of course, my darling, I do not care
anything about the ring, but what on earth will your rustic hero do with
it? He certainly will not want to wear it with overalls and brogans, and
if he has a particle of sentiment in his composition, he would never
think of realizing money on it when it was presented under such romantic
circumstances.”
“Well, papa, I’m afraid it wasn’t the most appropriate gift in the
world,” said Mollie, a shadow falling over her bright face, “but I just
had to do something to show him how grateful I was, personally, and he
certainly looked as if he was glad to be appreciated.”
“Never mind, dear,” said her father comfortingly. “I will write to-day
and make some inquiries, and if I find he is all right, I will do
something handsome for him. Let me see—you said that he told some of the
gentlemen aboard the train he wanted to go to college?”
“Yes, he said that he had nearly finished his course in the academy
of the town where he lives, and was going to try to work his way
through college,” Mollie replied. “Just think of it, papa!” she went on
earnestly, “and it doesn’t seem fair, does it? There is Phil, who really
doesn’t care particularly about having a college course, only it is the
proper thing, and so he is going to Harvard in September, and he has
every wish gratified—plenty of money, fine clothes, and lots of good
times; and here is this poor boy, without any one but himself to depend
upon, and he is going to work his way through! It is a queer world, isn’t
it?” she concluded, with a sigh of perplexity.
“There, there; don’t bother your pretty head about it, Goldenrod; it is a
problem you will never solve,” said her father, stroking her shining head
with a caressing touch; “go and do your reading for mama, while I write
my letter and get the matter off my mind.”
“But to whom will you write?” queried Mollie.
“I think I will address my letter to the principal of the academy; he
will probably be able to tell me more about this young seeker after
knowledge than any one else.”
And the gentleman proceeded to put his plan into immediate execution. He
wrote a brief but comprehensive epistle, addressing it to the “Principal
of the Academy, Cedar Hill,” telling him that he wished to show his
appreciation of young Faxon’s heroic act in some practical way, and
asking his advice regarding the best method of doing this.
He gave no name, as he said he preferred to remain incog, and not hamper
the lad with any sense of obligation, but that any communication sent
to a certain lock box in New York would reach him. He stated that an
immediate reply was desired, as he was on the eve of going abroad.
Professor Harding’s face glowed with genuine pleasure when he received
the letter the next morning, for now he saw that it would perhaps be
practicable for his protégê to enter college. He replied immediately,
giving a brief history of Clifford Faxon’s life and circumstances,
speaking of him in the highest terms, and claiming that any assistance
rendered him in his efforts bestowed, and in behalf of the boy, in whom
he was deeply interested, he thanked his unknown correspondent most
heartily for his kind intentions.
A day or two later there came to Clifford a cashier’s check for a
thousand dollars, made payable to himself, and with it a few sentences
of hearty appreciation of his recent act, and also of encouragement for
the future.
But the donor and writer was anonymous.